


Four Deaths at a Funeral

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Supernatural, The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Anthropomorphic Philosophications, Awkward Conversations, Episode: s10e23 My Brother's Keeper, Footnotes, Gen, Hellatus, Humor, More Pratchett References Than Your Imps Can Keep Up With, Sam and Dean Winchester's A+ Universe Wrecking, Snacks & Snack Food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WELL, says Death, lowering his scythe.  THIS IS AWKWARD.</p><p>"Indeed it is," Death replies, staring longingly at the remnants of his tamales.</p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div>In which Death attempts to come to terms with his own demise.  Death tries to help him.  As does Death.  And also Death.*<p><span class="u">Footnotes</span>:<br/>*Confused?  So are they.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Deaths at a Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> An anonymous user asked me, "What do you think would happen if Death from Supernatural met Death from Discworld?"
> 
> Could I have given them a proper answer? Well, I suppose I _could_ have, but that wouldn't have been nearly as much fun.
> 
> Endless* thanks to my beta squad—[aerialiste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/pseuds/aerialiste/works), [betty days](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sadrobots/pseuds/betty%20days), and [sysrae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae/works). In the words of the Librarian, "Ook!"
> 
> Dedicated to the late Sir Terry Pratchett†.

WELL, says Death, lowering his scythe.  THIS IS AWKWARD.

"Indeed it is," Death replies, staring longingly at the remnants of his tamales.

I DID NOT KNOW YOU COULD PASS, SIBLING.

"I must admit to being somewhat shocked as well.  Hoist by my own scythe," Death _tuts,_ shaking his head.  "Typical."

Death's sockets give the impression of blinking, which, had you been unused to his frequent attempts at using the eyelids he did not possess, might have seemed rather unsettling.*  ARE THESE THE CULPRITS? he asks, gesturing to Sam and Dean Winchester, frozen in time.

Death sighs.  "They are.  Again.  As always."

Death wrinkles his non-nose.  WITCHES?  WIZARDS?

"Winchesters."

OH DEAR.

"Quite."

They stand in an uncomfortable silence† for quite a long time.  Death stares unblinkingly—which is really very rude, considering he has the lids for it and all—at Dean, standing statue-still with a surprised look on his face.  Sam is paralyzed in a perpetual wince, knelt on the floor, prepared to give up for the third time in as many years.

It is astounding how telling and accurate a picture the picture is.

Death fiddles with his robes and clears his throat.  A LOVELY PLACE, he says, gesturing to the mural of Las Calaveras Catrinas on the wall.  I HAVE A GUEST BEDROOM DECORATED SIMILARLY.‡

"All a bit too _From Dusk Till Dawn_ for my tastes," Death admits with a flourish of his hand toward the mural.

Death cocks his head to the side.  WHAT DOES THE TIME OF DAY HAVE TO DO WITH THE DECOR?

"It's a movie," says Death.

OH YES, WE HAD MOVING PICTURES FOR A WHILE.  THE WHOLE ENDEAVOR PROVED SOMEWHAT DISASTROUS, BUT THE BANGED GRAINS WERE NICE.  EXTRA BUTTER AND SALT.

“Popcorn, yes,” Death agrees.  “Anyway, I didn't enjoy the film, but it was playing at a certain drive-in theatre in New Mexico which serves very good jalapeño poppers."

AND WHAT IS IT THAT MAKES THESE JALAPEÑOS POP EXACTLY?

Death takes a moment to think about this.  "I’m not sure.  Popcorn makes sense, because the corn pops.  These are fried hot peppers with cheese; there’s nothing to pop.  The heat, I suppose?  Perhaps the size?  I truly don't understand the naming conventions humans have for edibles, but they're delicious nevertheless."

I'M FOND OF SPICY FOOD MYSELF, Death says.

“At last!” exclaims Death in a mockery of surprise.  “Something we have in common besides work.”

YES.  WELL, I’M FOND OF OVERLY-HOT CURRY, AT LEAST.  BUT I WILL HAVE TO PAY A VISIT TO DIBBLER AND REQUEST THESE BANGED PEPPERS OF YOURS.  THEY SOUND...  Death stops, searching for the correct adjective and winds up with, INTERESTING?

"Most junk food is.  Ask your man to make a spicy cheese sauce for them, as well.  It’s called ‘nacho’.  Perhaps some corn chips."

DOES IT COME ON A STICK?

“I should think not,” says Death, scoffing.

Death pulls a small journal from somewhere within his robe, summons a quill, and begins to write everything down.  He mutters, NOT YO CHEESE, and, NO STICKS, as he writes.

"Do you have El Día de los Muertos in your universe?" he asks after he hears the scratch of the pen cease, turning to look at Death at last.

NO, says Death.  THE LAST TIME I TRIED TO TAKE A HOLIDAY ALSO PROVED SOMEWHAT DISASTROUS.

"Ah.”  Death sighs.  “We have quite a lot of disaster here, as well.  Typically caused by those two bumbling buffoons over there,” he says, throwing his arm pointedly toward the Winchesters, “or else their ilk.”

IT’S ALWAYS THE ONES WITH W’S IN.

Silence again.  It's strange, that Death should spend so much time in the quiet between the seconds of the existence of others and now be wary of it at the end of his own.

"You have a house, you said?" he asks, breaking the audible hourglass.

DO YOU NOT?

Death checks his pocket watch, more out of habit than anything else.  It isn't as if he has any appointments to keep anymore, or anywhere to be, at all.  "I typically wander."

THE ENDLESS SANDS?

"No, the universe."  He pauses thoughtfully before continuing, "I did once.  Temple and everything.  But I ended up trapped Below for a bit.  Since then, I prefer to enjoy my freedom."

Death nods.  THERE IS MUCH TO BE SAID FOR TRANSIENCE.

Death tries to pull his cane from the ineffable grasp of the cosmos and allows himself a short moment to look dejected when it fails to materialize.  “I suppose I won’t have need of a walking stick now, anyway.”

DO YOU KNOW WHAT IS TO COME FOR YOU?

“I thought nothing,” says Death, “for I never expected to die.”

IT IS VERY STRANGE, Death agrees.  THOUGH I ALMOST DIED ONCE MYSELF, SO PERHAPS THERE IS A PRECEDENCE OF SORTS FOR THESE THINGS.§

“How did you avoid perishing?”

Death shrugs and says, I KILLED MY REPLACEMENT.  He peers down at Death and quickly adds, NO.

“Couldn’t help it.”

I FORGIVE YOU.  He places a bony hand on Death’s shoulder.  I WOULD ASK IF YOU ARE READY TO GO, BUT I FIND THAT NO ONE EVER IS.

“I tend to delegate collection,” Death admits.  “Those I show up to usher are typically ready to leave.”

THAT MUST BE NICE, says Death.  I CHOOSE MY COLLECTIONS, TOO, THOUGH I WAS EXPECTING SOMEONE ELSE.  He pulls an hourglass from yet another fold of his robe and inspects the label.  I ASSUME YOU DO NOT GO BY “SAMMY”?

“I knew I should have collected him first and talked to him later,” Death says hollowly.  “Sam’s soul’s a slippery thing, not to mention easily persuaded.  His brother was supposed to kill him and hit me instead.”

COLLATERAL DAMAGE, observes Death.  MOST UNFORTUNATE.

“To be honest,” Death says, taking a seat and leaning back in his chair, “I’m uncertain why you were called here at all.”  He tips his head, invites Death to sit with him.

Death does.  I ONLY FOLLOW WHERE THE SANDS LEAD, he says.  PERHAPS I WAS HERE FOR YOU ALL ALONG.  AS YOU DO NOT HAVE AN HOURGLASS, YOUR TIME BORROWED SOMEONE ELSE’S.

“How ironic,” Death observes, “to have come to take Sam only to be taken by his sand, instead.”

OH.  He runs a skeletal finger thoughtfully across his jaw, eliciting a horrific scraping noise akin to a porcupine’s kettle.‖  YOU WERE MAKING A DEAL, THEN.  FOR GAME OR VENDETTA?

“Mostly because I can, and it’s been Sam’s time for _years._ ”  He hesitates.  “And I was overdue a bit of fun at the Winchesters’ collective expense.  The idiots always manage to win, and I have no idea why.”

A GAME FOR KEEPS.  Death looks thoughtful.  I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU PLAY CHESS?

 

* * *

 

 _Well,_ says Death, playing with the ankh around her neck.   _This is awkward._

Death and Death both look up from their eighty-seventh stalemate.

_I don’t suppose the new guy goes by “Sammy”?_

NO, says Death.  THIS WAS PREVIOUSLY ESTABLISHED.

“I was felled by my own blade,” Death says, annoyed.

Death nods her head in approval.   _It’s important to take the walk for ourselves.  You can’t appreciate the value of what you collect if you don’t understand what it is you’re collecting._

“You have died?” asks Death, flicking a piece of dust off the sleeve of his suit.

 _I make the journey fairly regularly,_ she replies, spinning a chair around to sit in it backwards.  She tucks an errant strand of her wild black hair behind her ear and smiles at him broadly.   _It’s good for you._

Death narrows his eyes at her, leans in closer, looming like a raven.  “You _choose_ to die?”

She laughs, crinkling the mark around her eye. _It’s either that or play chess once a century with Skinny over here._

Death slumps slightly in his seat.  I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS.

 _We are!_ she insists, taking his hand in hers.   _You just tend to ramble on about cats is all, and I’d prefer to be mortal for a day and get on with the Endless existing._

CATS ARE VERY IMPORTANT.

 _Look, I’ll pop over for breakfast,_ says Death.   _You tell Albert to make pancakes, we’ll invite Susan, and we’ll make a day of it._

Death brightens.  I’D LIKE THAT.  He looks across the table at Death.  WOULD YOU CARE TO JOIN US, SIBLING?

He considers it, tapping a long finger against his temple.  “Does this Albert know about funnel cake?”

I AM CERTAIN HE COULD BE INSTRUCTED.¶

 _Doesn’t he need to be reincarnated though?_ asks Death.   _Wouldn’t do to have the machine break down again because you want to save a cog._

HE IS A SPECIAL COG, Death says, AND THIS UNIVERSE IS NOT LONG FOR…WELL.  THE REST OF IT.

“What are we waiting for, then?” asks Death, standing from the table and straightening his tie.  “I have stared at these pitiful children long enough.”

 _Let’s wait a minute,_ Death says as she rocks the chair forward on its front two legs.   _Someone else is bound to show up._

 **SQUEAK?** asks the Death of Rats, who is always punctual and exactly where it needs to be.

HE DOES NOT GO BY ‘SAMMY’, Death tells it.

 **SQUEAK,**  it says.

WE’RE ALL ACQUAINTED.  HARDLY AWKWARD FOR US NOW.

The Death of Rats waves his tiny scythe at the Winchesters.   **SQUEAK?**

NO, Death answers.  NOT FOR THEM, EITHER.  I’D WAGER THEY HAVE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO WORRY ABOUT.

“Oh,” says Death with a malicious chuckle, “you have no idea.”

 

 

 

 

Footnotes: 

*Albert has tried to tell him this, but Death has surprisingly selective hearing for someone with no ears.

†A member of the illustriously underfunded Guild of Town Criers has recently discovered that there is no such thing as a comfortable silence.  There is, however, no evidence of this as no one is willing to speak up about it.

‡Albert refuses to clean it, and Susan refuses to sleep there when she visits.  Death pretends not to be horribly offended, but the hats took a very long time to perfect, and they both insist that's the worst part of the whole endeavor.  He's not sure why they're so stuck on the flowers being wilted rather than not; the subjects are dead, after all, and Death is nothing if not Very Terribly Real.

§There isn’t.  It’s just that it keeps happening, which the universe finds confounding, but there’s seemingly bugger all to be done about it.

‖Look, you can’t just run to the footnotes all willy-nilly every time you don’t understand what’s been said.  Some things aren’t _meant_ to be understood, you know.  If they wanted to be understood, they would invite you over for tea.  Don’t be so prickly.

¶The Bursar actually has the perfect recipe for funnel cake, but he is loathe to make it due to Ridcully’s insistence on calling them tornado tarts whilst shooting things at them.  If there’s one thing the Bursar knows (which, anymore, is a toss-up), it’s that pastry should not be made to stand in for clay pigeons.  Not nearly as cruel as what happens to the poor custard, though.

**Author's Note:**

> Footnotes:  
> *See what I did there?  
> †GNU Pterry.
> 
> This is also [crossposted to tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/125375720447/four-deaths-at-a-funeral); if you enjoyed the fic, I would greatly appreciate your reblogging it.
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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